


strikingly beautiful, but

by entanglement



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, do not read, this is v bad, vague descriptions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglement/pseuds/entanglement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>divertissement</p>
            </blockquote>





	strikingly beautiful, but

Did Bix and Billie feel like teenagers stealing a sip from the liquor cabinet on their first benders?

The first glassful of liquor feels awkward in Andrew's hand, but each refill that follows makes the action of bringing it to his lips a little less awkward. Fletcher's probably looking for him to wring his fucking neck for his little coup d'etat, but it's difficult to care once the edges of his vision start to dull and the warmth of the booze stretches out to his fingers and toes.

The drinks aren't celebratory. It's the only thing he can think of that'll stop the tremor in his hands and mute the pounding in his ears.

Eventually, though, there's a creak in the stool beside him and he looks over to catch Fletcher's gaze. His mouth is a thin line across his face and the blood in his lips is drained from how hard he's pressing them together. Who fucking knows if he's actually angry. The fucker always looks like something sharp is rattling around inside his bald head. Even if he really is angry, Andrew doesn't tense up at his presence. If anything, he relaxes.

"Wanna talk about what you just did, man?"

"Not really," Andrew answers. He waves the bartender over and orders Fletcher a drink.

 

\--

 

"Rushing or dragging?" Andrew spits.

Fletcher responds with a sound between a gasp and a laugh instead of an answer. If it were anyone or anything else, Andrew would laugh too, because what's happening truly is ridiculous, but Fletcher's laugh echoes around inside of him, climbing to a fortissi-fucking-issimo before he grips Fletcher's hips and rocks against him harder.

"Rushing. Or. Dragging?"

"All over the place. Talentless little prick," Fletcher finally spits back, encouraging as always. "Can't keep rhythm. Can't fuck."

 

\--

 

"Hair of the dog."

Andrew's eyes slide open to a bedside table with a deep red drink in a clear glass. One of the slivers of lights peeking in from the window across the room hits a cut in the glass just right to shine into his eyes and cues the deep brain throbs of a headache. Hungover. Maybe it wasn't exactly a bender, per se, but there's a healthy wave of the regret that probably accompanies one when he looks up to see it's Fletcher leaning over him.

"Being a decent fuck doesn't entitle you to fucking snooze in my bed all day," he says.

Andrew waits just a moment for the break, but it doesn't come. Fletcher's serious. He slides out of the bed, awkwardly pawing for his clothes on the floor and avoiding the bloody mary on the bedside table. It feels too much like legitimate concern and sticking around to gulp it down even if it relieves the sourness in his stomach still means accepting a kindness from the asshole.

"Another set tonight. Gonna be there?" Fletcher asks.

The answer should really be no.


End file.
